Chapter 1
Selene took a half step onto the stage, the staccato articulation of her heart a sharp reminder of what was to come. She sang each precise note and summoned the wind, fluttering the curtains open. Row after row of empty seats shimmered blue and gold in the flicker of stage lights and the chandelier. This was her tessitura: what she knew, what she expected, what she was destined for.
In six days, this auditorium would be filled, and Selene would perform for the wealth of Mondreves and the king. It was the height of opulence and elegance that positioned the kingdom on the cutting edge of art and magic. Dignitaries would travel from around the world to see their latest innovations and offerings. They were allowed in selectively—the king guarded his secrets well. One of the many reasons auditions were kept closed. Selene was mere breaths away from her chance at the stage, free of nerves or concern that she would make it through. She was favored to win in all the papers and knew the scope of her talent and ambition. Competing in L’Opéra du Magician was the only thing she’d wanted for as long as she could remember.
Almost.
There had been a time when Selene wanted to be somethingnew each day. A pirate, a flower seller, the girl who sang the books back onto the shelves in the library. She wanted to be everything. But that was a long time ago, before she’d come to live in the opera house, before she’d lost her father. She’d traded a menagerie of dreams for this singular purpose. Selene had nothing else. She only wanted this.
Something shifted behind her. A whisper, a flutter, that familiar feeling of solitude breached.
When she turned, the stage was empty. Selene was alone.
The ghost.
A thrill of fear ran through her. The opera house was notoriously haunted. For decades, students swore they saw a face in the mirrors. The rumor was a girl grew so frightened that she threw herself from the rooftop. And so there were no mirrors in all of the Opera Magique—not to protect their vanity, but to protect their souls.
Selene had looked for the ghost in bowls of water and window glass, in any place she could see herself reflected. She wanted ghosts to be real. She wanted to believe that the people she loved and lost were somehow still here. That her father stood in the place between shadow and light, watching her. That somehow, he’d forgiven her for what she had done.
“You’re early.”
Gigi stood behind her, dark, curly hair swept up in a tight bun. Her cheeks were rouged and eyelids dusted in glitter, lips showing the barest shine. She turned out her long, sculpted legs in first position. She looked like she belonged in a music box, spinning and spinning and never growing weary—the kind of pretty that was meant to stay forever, but never would.
Selene relaxed a little. She pulled her father’s watch from the pocket of her dress and ran her thumb over the familiar engraving: a nightingale caught in starlight. It was the only piece of him she had left. “If you’re on time—”
“—you’re already a minute too late.” Gigi laughed through her teeth. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
“Nothing left to do but sing.”
And Selene was ready. She knew her aria like she knew the rhythm of her own heart. She’d written it piece by piece over the last three years, making sure it was perfect. Every note filled with meaning. Risoluto. Con fuoco.
The door crashed open. Priya stood in the frame, catching the light, an artist’s rendering of classic beauty. The hollow of her long neck fluttered with each intake of breath, like a butterfly reposing on a blossom. Her hair was long and lush, her mouth painted in plum. It was a shame that someone so beautiful could be so terrible. That pretty face twisted into a sneer. A flash of cruelty—before it was replaced with a politician’s smile.
“I don’t know why you two even bother.” Priya swung her hips as she walked, each step a performance. “Madame Giroux’s talentless daughter and the orphan of the Mad Mage. No matter how you perform, the king will never pick you. What will the papers say?”
“ ‘Talent surpasses nepotism and bribery,’ ” Selene snapped. “ ‘Priya Ankari seen weeping in her lover’s arms while her fiancé looks on.’ ”
Priya’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “And what would you know of lovers, Selene?”
“Nothing,” Selene said sweetly, trying not to let the barb sting. Once, Selene had thought she loved someone. But it was the folly of childhood, gone as swift as a sigh. “My only love is music.”
“Then I fear you’ll be spurned.”
“Ignore her.” Gigi pulled at Selene’s sleeve.
Selene caught the retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d show Priya on the stage. Gigi was right, Priya wasn’t worth the wasted words. She wasn’t worth the energy hate would expend. Selene needed everything she had today.
Gigi’s fingers tightened on Selene’s arm.
Priya stood with a poisonous grin. She held a small, silver mirror in her hand.
It caught the light. A glimmer, a glint, a slip of reflective glass. Anywhere else, it would have been a worthless trinket.
In the Opera Magique, the mirror was a knife.
“Selene.” Gigi’s fingers dug into Selene’s flesh. Selene knew the shape of Gigi’s nightmares—had been with her through those sleepless nights. The ghost had terrified her since before she could remember.
“The only monster here is the one holding the glass,” Selene seethed.
